


Favored Son

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Things you said at 1 a.m.</i> </p>
<p>A partial tower collapse kills two Marines and puts four more in the infirmary and Sheppard tries to punch a hole in the wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favored Son

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by number one [here](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/111919930176/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a). Thanks to Aadarshinah for the beta read.

A partial tower collapse kills two Marines and puts four more in the infirmary and Sheppard tries to punch a hole in the wall.

The blow is hard enough to put a hole straight through the drywall of any wall on Earth, but this is Atlantis, where the walls are made of stronger stuff, so all he gets for his trouble is a broken hand. Instead of releasing some frustration and getting on with his job, he has to go back to the infirmary and let Marie bandage up his hand.

“Do you want anything for the pain?” she asks when she’s finished, half turning toward the medicine cabinet.

“Nah,” says Sheppard. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

It actually hurts like a bitch, but that’s okay--he’s had worse injuries, and this keeps him centered, keeps his mind off of the faces of more people he couldn’t save, more young marines to add to his list of casualties.

It’s late, and the infirmary is still and quiet except for the faint beep of heart monitors and the _khh-shh_ of the ventilator that’s hooked up to a Marine who survived, but only just and for who knows how long.

The chaos of the collapse and rescue has faded to that restless, endless wait to see which of the survivors will last the night, who will live but not enough to stay in Pegasus. Earth isn’t home to anyone who’s lived on Atlantis for more than a couple months, and two of the guys, including the one on the respirator, have been here since that first desperate year. It’s Sheppard who will have to tell them they have to leave their home, Sheppard who has to write at least two “regret to inform you” letters, probably three by morning.

He flees and gets into a transporter, where he hits the map at random. It’s reckless and stupid given they’ve been having structural problems all over the city, but it’s late, and he’s too tired to sleep. He’s feeling that bone-deep existential weariness that will whisper worst-case scenarios in his ear, lies with just enough truth in them to chase away any hope of a dreamless sleep.

The transporter takes him to a familiar-looking corridor, the one that leads to the pier where he and Rodney drink beer and the empty lab they’ve been using as a game room ever since their version of Civilization turned out to involve actual civilizations. It’s out-of-the-way enough that people won’t stumble by on accident, but near enough that they’re close at hand in case of an emergency.

Sheppard walks aimlessly along the hallway for a few paces, then stops, leans against the wall, and slides to the floor. He tips his head back and reaches out with his good hand to touch the wall beside him.

Atlantis is there, a steady hum in the back of his mind, just shy of sentient. It’s stronger with skin contact, when it’s quiet, when no one else is around. He lets the hum grow louder, and when he’s sure he’s got her attention, he says out loud, “A little warning would have been nice.” She can read his mind, so there’s no reason to speak, really, but the silence of solitude and aftermath is more than his frazzled nerves can take right now.

Her response is a flicker of emotion, a little remorse and something vaguely stubborn and a little hurt. It’s not the most efficient means of communication, but it doesn’t require a computer interface or the chair. The chair is amazing; he has access to everything the city is and has in 360 surround sound, in front of his eyes and behind them, but it drowns out signals from his own body, leaving him exhilarated but drained, and Keller has strongly advised against its frequent use.

Sheppard sighs. “Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly, with a little wave of his injured hand. “You know how it is.”

She doesn’t: None of the Marines had the ATA gene.

Sheppard sometimes forgets that he’s only Atlantis’s favored son because of the strength of his gene. The city is home, a constant soothing presence that he wouldn’t give up for anything, but she is a product of those who built her. She carries their superiority, their disdain for humans without the gene. The city mourned Beckett, and it will mourn Sheppard when his blaze of glory comes to its inevitable fiery end, but she feels no great loss for those who couldn’t even properly speak to her.

Sheppard sits there for a long time, brushing his fingers across the strange cool metal of the wall and letting the city apologize with a wash of calm comfort. The Marines mean nothing to Atlantis, but they mean something to Sheppard, so she does the best she can with those messy human emotions.

It helps enough that eventually, Sheppard can pick himself up off of the floor, head back to his room, and try to get a few hours sleep before tackling the worst part of his job.

He trails a hand along the wall until he gets to the transporter. Atlantis stays with him, quieter now that the contact is lessened. He touches the spot for the personnel quarters and withdraws his hand entirely, and she fades to just a whisper, the barest stirring breath under his skin. 

He lays his fingertips on the wall outside of his door. _Thanks_ , he thinks to her, and goes to bed.


End file.
